The Leprechaun Hunter
by BelhavenOnTap
Summary: After seeing a news story about a leprechaun sighting in Mobile, Alabama, Murphy convinces Connor a road trip is in order. MacManus hijinks to follow.
1. News Flash

**A/N:** This silliness came to mind when I saw a clip on YouTube about a leprechaun sighting in a neighborhood of Mobile, Alabama. I could only imagine what kind of heyday the guys would have with it if they saw the news report that ran on the local NBC affiliate. If you haven't seen the clip, watch it before reading. I also recommend the accompanying rap…

Murph was an absolute fanatic about watching the news. Connor preferred movies but Murph always claimed truth was better than fiction. Besides they never knew when the vigilante killings that kept popping up all over the place would be blamed on the infamous "Saints of South Boston," who seemed like ghosts these days.

Da had returned to Ireland to be with Ma. It had been three years since they had been to Boston. The boys had become more surgical in their hits, leaving no signature. However, occasional copy cat killings on the news were cause for amusement. But it was a bizarre phenomenon: cities were strangely safer. Everyday people were fighting back against street crime, blowing the shit out of rapists, robbers, kidnappers, drug peddlers, child molesters. And Murph loved hearing about it on the news.

Come on, Conn, it's like every city's got a Charlie Bronson or three or four! Joe Blow is going to send us into retirement, Conn, Murphy would shake his head in amazement, as his brother watched the news with him without an argument, smoking a cigarette. T'would be nice, Connor would comment, and Murph could see Connor's effort to manage the wry smile.

This hellish game we play for each other, Murph thought. I pretend to let you take care of me and the whole time I am watching you. Connor would never cease to long for his life of really not so many years ago although it might as well have been a million. They moved constantly, as it had been for five years now. Connor could not accept any sort of human comfort. Not a decent bed, a clean toilet, a quiet neighborhood. Despite the sordid surroundings, inevitably something would remind him too sharply of what Murph thought of as "the way their life had begun": his job at the engineering firm, the cozy house in Cambridge, his kitchen gadgets, the Bordeauxs he brought home from the wine shop—that he brought home for her. Inevitably something would remind him too sharply of her, and Murph would instantly feel his twin's avalanching grief. He shared it too, of course. That was when they packed up and started the engine to whatever car they were driving at the time and headed somewhere new.

But Connor was okay for now, good-humored as he had always been and always would be.

* * *

"Holy, fuck, Connor, look, look at this!"

The reporter was describing a report of a leprechaun sighting in Mobile, Alabama.

Connor turned and glared at Murph then crossed his eyes. "Fuckin' hell, Murph."

"This is news! A bloody leprechaun! Turn up the volume, Conn! A leprechaun!"

Then the story began, showing crowds of people gathered around a tree. Huge crowds of people. Not just dozens of people, but hundreds of them. There was a fucking traffic jam and some nutjob was directing traffic. People were spouting off theories about what the leprechaun really was. Was it a shadow? One woman said it was probably a crackhead who had acquired a bad batch of dope.

"That's tha ticket, granny." Connor muttered with a loud belch, but Murph noticed he did lean forward in his chair with a raised eyebrow.

"Sorry, sir, but I think yer leprechaun flute was made in China like everything else at Home Depot." Murph cackled at the television, getting an idea in his head, as the story ended.

"Bloody fuckin' Yanks. Smecker said he could get us ta Canada. I think it's a sign, Murph." Connor chuckled, as Murph scurried around looking for the atlas.

"Okay, Conn. We're here in Youngstown, Ohio. Here is Mobile, Alabama. We can be there in a day." Murph said, plunking down the map in front of his brother.

"Have ye lost yer bloody mind, Murph?"

"Absolutely. Look, they've got a Crocodile Hunter, Ghost Hunters, Shark Hunters, a Demon Hunter—or was that a movie? Doesn't matter, there are fuckin' anything hunters. We're bloody Irish. Who could be better experts on leprechauns than tha Irish?" Murph grinned. He was so fucking bored in that crappy town. It was cold, miserable and full of lowlifes. "Besides I want me picture taken in tha leprechaun tree with tha new camera."

"Ye bastard, ye know yer scared of heights."

"I'll make an exception this time." He knew Connor was going to agree. Connor was smirking.

"Leprechaun hunters, aye?"

"Aye."

"Well, get yer shit packed, ya fuckin' slob. We've got quite a drive it appears from tha map." Connor sighed, shaking his head.

* * *

"What tha fuck are we doin' here?" Murph asked, as Connor pulled into the parking lot of a posh looking men's shop in Bowling Green, Kentucky.

"If you're goin' ta be an expert, ye've got ta look like an expert." Connor smirked, giving his brother a shove.

Murphy was not best pleased when he was fitted with tweed trousers and some extremely natty Bally loafers. He gave Connor a foul look when he handed him a thick Irish wool cardigan which he was to wear over a pin point shirt and—"if ye utter the word 'fuck' in here, I'm goin' ta pinch yer bloody ear off, ye great ass"—a tie. Yes, Connor said, he'll be wantin' those cufflinks there. And yes, he'll also be taking the pipe. Now, have ye a toboggan in a complementary tweed? And yes, those suede gloves as well.

"Where tha hell are yer clothes, Connor?" Murph grumbled, as they walked out of the store. He was scotching mad about the argyle socks. He would never admit to Connor that those shoes were extremely comfortable.

"Oh, dear brother, I'm just yer helper. Yer the expert. I'm yer photographer and equipment operator." Connor smirked, then became serious. "Now, we've got ta go ta a place with an 'As Seen on TV' aisle, so I can find one of those bloody metal detectors they're always advertising in tha middle of tha night. Then we've got ta go ta a Radio Shack, so I can get some gear ta modify it into a leprechaun detecting device."

"A fucking cardigan sweater?"

"Yer The Leprechaun Hunter, Murph."

**A/N:**Please read and review. I just hope Murph can get himself up in that tree!


	2. Preparations for The Hunt

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews, everyone. You realize you've given Connor, Murph and me license to go all out with this. Hee hee! Cheers, Bel.

* * *

As they walked out of Radio Shack, where Connor had made purchases of items amounting to three shopping bags worth of what Murph would consider techno-geek crap, he noticed his brother pause before unlocking the door of their non-descript, usually reliable Buick Le Sabre. Connor was staring intently at the hood ornament and tossed Murph the keys.

"I'll be right back." Connor said cryptically.

When Connor returned after a few minutes, he had a piece of paper in his hand and told Murph to pull out of the parking lot and turn left and began giving him all sorts of directions that did not lead them back to the highway from whence they had come.

"Where tha fuck're we goin', Connor?"

"Ye'll see. Now, right at this intersection." Connor looked extremely self-satisfied, as he answered.

Soon they were driving down a street lined with car dealerships.

"Turn right into this driveway here, Leprechaun Hunter." Connor instructed, as Murph steered into a driveway then saw the sign for Land Rover. Connor was reaching under the seat for one of their many cases of cash.

"Conn, these fuckers are expensive."

"They've got a used one." Connor laughed triumphantly. "Emerald green too!"

"We're gettin' a Land Rover?"

"Yes, Murph. We're gettin' a Land Rover!"

"I always wanted a Land Rover."

"Only tha best for tha Leprechaun Hunter." Connor snickered, stuffing twenty thousand dollars into the pocket of his pea coat.

Murph stared at his brother in shock. "'Tis a lot of money, Conn."

"Leave tha accountin' ta yer assistant, please, sir."

"It's got a CD player. We don't have any CDs. It's got warmers fer yer arse! It's got—"

"Buckle yer fuckin' safety belt, retard." Connor said, smacking Murph's hand away from the moon roof controls. "Leave tha Leprechaun Mobile controls alone, fuckwit, and buckle up."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think ye were enjoying yerself, Connor."

Connor did not dignify Murph with a response to that comment, but Murph was quite certain he saw the hint of a smile in the fading light of the day.

"Okay, we're stoppin' fer the night. I've some serious solderin' ta do."

Murph was not quite sure what had crawled up Connor's ass when Connor pulled into the parking lot of a hotel which did not offer weekly much less hourly rates. The place had a lobby too—with a fish tank in it. A free continental breakfast in the morning? He even would bet there would be shampoo in the bathroom. And the toilet would be clean.

There was also a barber shop in the lobby.

When Connor handed him a twenty and pointed to the barber shop, he groaned.

"Just think, ya tosser, ye don't have ta unload tha car if ye get yer hair cut."

Murph shrugged. Not such a bad deal.

"And tomorrow, yer shavin'." Connor told him, before he turned to head back out to the car.

It was always important to not leave over a million dollars unattended for too long, even if your new car had an alarm in it.

Probably five times that much money had come through their hands over the years during their hits. However, they were avid believers in distributing dirty money to clean souls. They never stayed in one place too long but they had met some needy and very deserving people. Food banks always needed money. Animal shelters too. Battered women's shelters as well. And there was always a fundraiser for something no matter where you went.

They never spent much on themselves. Beer, cigarettes, new socks occasionally. A grungy place to stay and crappy food to eat. Used books and name brand toothpaste were their luxuries. Murph would have liked to have splurged on places with higher quality toilet paper but he didn't make mention of this to Connor. It was better for them to save their money. It was hard to know what kind of emergency might come up when they would need it.

* * *

"I think tomorrow we're goin' ta buy a video camera." Connor said, as he soldered multi-colored mini flood lights onto the As-Seen-On-TV metal detector.

"What's got in ta ye, Connor? Yer usually tighter than Dick's hatband." Murph commented, watching the ridiculous looking contraption Connor was assembling.

"Everybody's got home movies, Murph. Why not us?" Connor shrugged, threading wires through a piece of pipe.

"Aye."

Murph smiled to himself. Connor had balked a bit when Murph demanded that they buy the digital camera but relented when he justified it for surveillance purposes. However, the only photographs that had been taken with it were of each other doing stupid things.

"And I guess we'll have ta get a laptop computer ta be able ta see our movies and our pictures." Connor said, now soldering the pipe to the shaft of the metal detector.

"That looks like a real leprechaun detection device, Connor, not just some piece of shite from Radio Shack." Murph said, knowing better than to comment on the giant leap his brother had just made of showing a bit of sentimentality.

"I have a feelin' it'll be a big hit at Ground Zero. See, what I've done here, is modify tha device ta sound when I press this little hidden button. And this button here makes tha lights flash when a leprechaun has been detected." Connor said, holding the apparatus out for inspection. "Nice and sturdy. Yes, nicely done."

"Ye seem right proud of yerself."

"So, Murph, what is yer plan fer when we get there?"

"Plan?"

"Aye."

"Well, now that we've got tha Rover, I'm thinkin' we take a keg o' Guinness fer the people and I climb up in tha tree and get me picture taken."

Connor smacked him on the back of the head. "Some fuckin' Leprechaun Hunter ye are. I was thinkin' we'd get some business cards printed up in the mornin' fer ya before we left here. A fuckin' keg of Guinness and climbin' the tree, I swear."

Murph walked into the bathroom with a plan up his sleeve. But business cards were a good touch, he would give Connor that, although he would never give him the satisfaction of telling him.


	3. Da Gold

**A/N:** Let's see what those lads are up to today! Happy New Year, everyone! bettyboo, there's a special part in here just for you… Cheers, Bel.

Murphy now wished that he and Connor had held on to the back-breakingly heavy suitcase of gold bars they had "liberated" during a hit in Washington D.C. a few years before. It would have come in handy for this little adventure and no doubt put the life of a tree out of eminent danger of a backhoe. Of course, it would have been a bitch to lug that shit around all these years. And then there would have been the eensy weensy problem of how did gold, tied to a Russian arms dealer supposedly knocked off by the infamous (and illustrious, naturally) Saints of South Boston, wind up in a cauldron in a suburb of Mobile, Alabama. Those golden dollar coins the US Mint made would have to suffice. They weren't really gold but they were currency and they looked like gold.

"Hey, Connor," Murphy called to his brother from the bathroom, where he was shaving. He hated shaving. He always nicked his mole.

"Aye?" Connor appeared at the door and met his eyes in the mirror. Connor was fully dressed and had been ready to leave for the past hour.

"I'll be needin' ta stop by a bank and some sort of shop."

Connor raised his brow. "Some sort of shop. Could ye be any more vague there, Murph?"

"The Leprechaun Hunter will be needin' a little black pot."

Connor grinned. "And from tha bank?"

"Some of those golden dollar coins they advertise on tha telly."

"Well, hurry yer arse up then."

* * *

It took six banks to have the amount of golden dollars to fill the pot they had found at an arts and crafts (farts and craps, thought Murphy) store. The office supply printed the Leprechaun Hunter business cards quickly enough, although the clerk told them their accents sounded fake and they needed to work on them if they expected people to pay them for their services. This coming from a bloke who looked like he weighed ninety pounds, had greasy, stringy hair almost down to his ass and was in possession of all of about three teeth. He looked like a lead actor in a bad Jesus movie on crystal meth.

"Fuckin' tosser! Sayin' our accents are fake! Tha bastard!" Murph fumed, as Connor hurried him out of the store.

Connor was laughing, which incensed Murphy.

"What tha fuck is so fuckin' funny?"

"Do ye really think he's ever set foot on Irish soil, Murph?" Connor chuckled, pressing the clicker on the car to unlock the doors. "Much less in a dentist's chair?"

"Aye, the fuckin' dentist wouldn't have much ta work on, would he?" Murph snickered, although still irate. "Let's have a look at tha cards."

They had chosen a simple shamrock logo with the words "The Leprechaun Hunter" in big bold letters. The card provided a url and an email address for Seamus O'Farrell, who had been a favorite uncle when they were children. On the back of the cards was an Irish blessing.

"Looks right professional, Seamus." Connor chuckled, putting the Rover into gear. "Now, can we get tha fuck outta Dodge?"

* * *

"Do ye want ta hunt tha leprechaun or do ye want ta fiddlefart around fuckin' Nashville, Tennessee, Murph?" Connor scowled, finishing pumping the gas into the Rover, when Murph came running out of the mini mart with a map to the country music stars mansions in hand.

"But we've got tha video camera! We can make a video essay and load it on tha internet with tha new computer on that youtube site." Murph told him, then noticed the gas pump meter. "Jesus, this thing sucks petrol."

"What tha hell do ye know about tha internet, Murphy MacManus?" Connor asked, taking the receipt for the gasoline purchase. Murph wondered if he was ever going to get to drive the Rover.

"I read about it in tha newspaper all tha time. Ya know, that Kim Komando lass' column."

"And I thought ye were just readin' tha funnies." Connor snorted. "Fuck, I wish I had a cigarette."

"Aye, me too." Murph said hopefully.

"We're not smoking in this car." Connor warned. "We are not fuckin' up this car."

* * *

"This gum tastes like shite." Connor grumbled, chewing frantically at the nicotine gum they had bought at a drug store twenty minutes later.

"And ye know what shite tastes like, how?" Murph chuckled, chewing equally as frantically and scratching at all the nicotine patches he had put on.

"Quit yer scratchin'. Yer makin' me fuckin' nervous." Connor tried to smack Murph's hand but missed and hit a button on the built-in GPS navigation system.

Suddenly a woman's voice began speaking, "Current direction is south on I-65. Current location is—"

"What in bloody fuck?" Connor shouted, swerving a bit on the road.

"Watch where yer goin', ya daft bastard." Murph laughed, pressing the button to turn the voice off again. "That's what ya get fer abusing yer dear brother so badly."

"Fuck ye, Murph."

Murph continued to scratch.

"Do ya think maybe puttin' on tha whole box of patches at once may be tha reason yer havin' such a problem there, ye idiot?" Connor asked self-righteously. "Maybe there's a reason they say only use one at a time."

"If ye weren't driving, I'd hit ya. And no, it's tha adhesive, fuckwit. Next stop, I'm gettin' a different brand. Anyway, the fuck do ya know about medication, Connor? Don't recall an MD behind **yer** name."

"Oh no you didn't."

"Ye've been watchin' too much Jerry Springer, Connor MacManus." Murph laughed. "Any minute now, yer gonna say, 'Bitch, don't make me slap on a pair of me Lee Press On Nails and claw yer eyes out.'"

When the snot flew out of Connor's nose, Murph cried out in victory. "Yer buyin' tha keg! Connor snotted! Connor snotted! Score one fer Murph!"

"Ye've been savin' that one, haven't ye?" Connor chuckled.

"Aye, and I've got thousands more in store when yer least expectin' them."

"Just not while I'm drivin'."

"Yes, Ma."

* * *

"Ye been wantin' ta drive this thing, haven't ya, brother?" Connor smirked, as they approached Birmingham, Alabama on I-65.

"Aye."

"Well, yer getting' ready ta get yer chance." Connor laughed with a glint in his eye, as he exited the interstate.

"Ye don't mean?"

"Aye, I certainly do. We can't go drivin' up in a pristine Leprechaun Mobile. We don't want them ta think we're fuckin' virgins at this business."

Five miles before Connor exited, they had both seen a billboard advertising Gray Rock Off Road Vehicle Park. It was a place where you could take your four wheel drive vehicle to drive on trails, over rocks, over logs and through streams for a fee. The vehicle pictured on the billboard had enormously large tires.

"If we're goin' ta get it muddy, I don't see why we can't smoke in it." Murph said, unable to figure out what to do with his hands.

"We're quittin'."

"What tha fuck did ye say?"

"Ye heard me, numbfuck." Connor said. "No more smokin'."

"Tha next thing yer goin' ta say is ye want ta quit drinkin'."

"I haven't lost me mind, Murph. I plan ta drink as much as is me birthright. But there's no reason fer us ta smoke anymore." Connor answered, as they pulled up to the Gray Rock Off Road Vehicle Park, which looked more like one of those monster truck conventions that was televised in the middle of the night when one could choose between watching that, pro wrestling or an informercial about exercise tapes called Yoga Booty Ballet.

"Do ya think tha guys who come here are compensatin' for what they're lackin' in their trousers?" Murph chuckled, gaping at all the oversized tires on the trucks which all seemed to have names painted on them. There was Hoss, The Behemoth, and The Intimidator (although it was sprayed painted poorly in day-glo green Krylon and spelled "The Intimidater"). "I think our tires are too small."

"And our cocks too big." Connor said. "Well, at least mine is."

"I thought we'd settled this argument, Connor." Murph grinned.

"Fuck ye. Okay, ye ready ta do yer worst?"

"Now, ye heard tha man. No speedin' over ten miles per hour. No tearin' through tha cornfields. And no cigarette butts." Connor chuckled, as they pulled away from the entry house where they paid their admission fee and each acquired a souvenir t-shirt.

First they had some business to attend to in the parking lot. There was ample posing in front of unsuspecting small penised men's vehicles for their video essay of contemporary American male sexuality.

One mullet-headed fuckstick whose truck was called Big Jim called the Rover a "pussy furren car," and Connor and Murphy nearly laughed themselves into hyperventilation when they saw what looked like an enormous pair of testicles hanging from the trailer hitch of the man's truck. Murph insisted upon standing over the trailer hitch and singing the old AC/DC classic "Big Balls." The mullet man bore a great resemblance to the guy who sang that irritating "Achy Breaky Heart" song, the video to which Murph had found on the telly one night much to Connor's chagrin. Murph had learned the song and the accompanying dance just to annoy his brother, whom he knew it secretly amused, although Connor would never admit it. The mullet man told them they needed to get rid of that "furren" car and get them a Dodge with a hemi, a lift kit and a Flowmaster glass pack.

Murph thanked Mr. Mullet and said they would have to give all of these suggestions considerable thought, especially the "Truck Nuts," which he and Connor began spotting on almost fifty percent of the oversized vehicles in the parking lot as Murph pulled through the entrance.

"Remember ten miles per hour, Murph." Connor said, as Murph engaged the four wheel drive.

"Absolutely."

Soon they were flying over a muddy, bumpy field at about forty miles per hour.

Murph was in heaven. Even Connor was grinning.


	4. Short Detour

"I counted thirty-one vehicles, Murph, and twenty-four of them had tha Confederate flag on them." Connor commented, as they pulled out of the parking lot of the Gray Rock Off Road Vehicle Park.

"Aye, I think there would be a direct correlation ta that bloody flag and tha size of their—um, tires, of course." Murph snickered. "Well, is tha Rover muddy enough?"

"Aye, she looks like she's had quite tha adventure, which she has. She did well, I thought. It was quite tha comfortable ride." Connor said approvingly, somewhat lovingly, Murph noticed.

"Do ya want ta drive again?" he asked, trying not to sound patronizing.

"Well, if yer tired."

"I believe am a wee bit." Murph said, attempting to stifle a laugh at his brother, who he knew had fallen head over heels in love with the vehicle.

* * *

"Looks like we're only about four hours out." Murph said, as they passed the statue of Vulcan high in the hills of Birmingham, Alabama. 

"I got ta get some food, Murph. Maybe if I eat, I'll stop wantin' a fuckin' cig." Connor said. He was jumpy again and swerved across three lanes of traffic to an exit.

"Ye need ta put on more of tha patches, Connor."

Murph had found a patch that did not irritate his skin at an exit in northern Alabama and had stuck the entire box on himself. "Tha fuckin' gum doesn't cut it."

"Well, I'm not goin' ta fuckin' mummify meself in those fuckin' patches like ye did. I don't think it's healthy, Murph."

"Oh, and drivin' like a fuckin' maniac is?" Murph snorted.

"Ye think ye can do a better job?"

"I know I can."

"Well, fuck ye."

"Just get yer fuckin' food."

Connor pulled into a mini mart, fondly known to Murph as a Stop n' Rob, and the brothers entered. Murph felt a wave of nausea when he saw Connor approach the register with his arms laden with his intended purchases, items none of which he was certain Connor had ever ingested: slim jims, pork rinds, bean dip, beef jerky and fried pies.

"Will ye be havin' some Pepto Bismol with that? Creepin' Christ on a cracker, Connor, yer so worried about messin' up tha new car? What in bloody hell do ya think is goin' ta happen when ye eat that amalgamation of nastiness? I don't want ta clean yer cage in tha mornin'. Much less smell tha green cloud comin' out o'ye in about an hour." Murph laughed, as they took their place in line.

"Aren't ye just a barrel of monkeys, Murph. So what are ye gettin'?"

"Some cashews and some tobacco fer the pipe."

"Like hell yer buying tobacco!"

"Got ta have it for tha Leprechaun Hunter get up. After all, ye were tha one that picked out tha pipe as I recall." Murph grinned.

"No tobacco, Murph. Yer not fuckin' smokin'!"

"Well, then how am I supposed ta look authentic?" Murph simpered smugly at his brother, enjoying Connor's fury.

"I don't bloody care. Yer not fuckin' smokin' if I can't."

"Okay, Mr. Pouty Pants, get yer smelly food and we'll skip tha tobacco." Murph cackled.

"Bast—"

They heard a giggle behind them. A distinctly female giggle. They both turned around and saw a rather elegantly dressed woman, at least for a Stop n' Rob, Murph thought, in her long off-white cashmere coat, black trousers and, as his inner Leah told him, the true test was the shoes. She passed or so he thought. They looked like very fine leather and had low heels, which Leah had said were always classic. He figured she passed muster. Nice hair too. Healthy hair, natural blond, cut in a bob. Murph figured her for probably a little younger than they were. She looked like she was dressed for a good job and he figured that had to be her Porsche Cayenne out in the parking lot. Her big blue eyes became bigger when they turned around and her hand went over her mouth but Murph saw she was continuing to shake with laughter.

"Look, Mr. Pouty Pants, she's got a healthy snack of yogurt and mineral water." Murph chuckled, winking at her. At that she burst into laughter. Connor turned bright red and gave his brother an angry look.

"I used to smoke in college." She said to Connor. "Slim Jims aren't the answer. You don't look like the type to take up knitting like I did. You need a Rubik's cube."

"I hated those bloody things as a kid." Connor frowned. "Besides where am I goin' ta get one?"

"I've got some in my car. Put up your pork rinds too."

Murph held out his hand to her when Connor reluctantly stepped out of line to replace the items in their proper places. "I think ye just saved me life."

"Your nose hairs at least." She grinned, shaking his hand. "I'm Carol Beth."

"I'm Murphy."

They paid for their items and walked to Carol Beth's car, as Murph suspected, the Porsche Cayenne that matched the color of her coat. She was a district manager for a pharmaceutical company and just happened to have promotional Rubik's cubes stamped with the name of the latest company's release to distribute to her reps.

"Thanks fer—" Connor began, as something caught all of their eyes.

"That is not happening!" Carol Beth growled, reaching for her cell phone.

"Fuck that!" Murph grumbled.

What they all saw was a young woman, probably eighteen, walking off the property of the Stop n' Rob into an intersection only to be pulled back by a young man of the same age. Pulled violently. The guy then proceeded to begin shoving her toward his truck (one with very large tires, Murph would remember later), pushing her down and pulling her back up along the way.

"I'm calling the police."

Murph and Connor looked at each other, and Murph knew Connor was thinking the same thing he was: there was an easier way to handle this.

"We'll take care of it." Murph said to Carol Beth.

She looked from Murph to Connor and back again.

"Absolutely not. My granddaddy is Irish. The two of you nicotine-starved boys need to get in your car and get out of here. You'll wind up in jail. If anyone will handle this, I will." She said vehemently. "That piece of trash isn't going to get away with this."

She grabbed Murphy's arm as she placed the call to the police. Connor furtively pointed to her and Murph could not believe the word he mouthed to him: Leah.

"Oh, no. He's taking off. I've got to follow them. Have a good trip, guys. I heard you saying something about leprechauns. Enjoy that pot of gold." She said, pecking them both on the cheek before getting in her car and tearing off behind the truck.

"Fuck tha leprechaun, Connor. We have ta follow. She could get hurt. What if tha bloody cops don't show?" Murph said, as they ran to the Rover.

"I'm with ya, Murph. Jesus, crazy woman. Mixture of Leah and Ma rolled up in ta one."

Murph took the wheel as they tore out into traffic behind Carol Beth and the big black truck with its blacked out windows, Confederate flag, loud diesel engine and huge red letters that said, "If they ain't chokin', you ain't smokin'." And of course, a pair of those fucking Truck Nuts. Connor was reaching into the locked case for the guns and preparing them. Murph could see Carol Beth wildly gesticulating at what he could only guess what a built in cell phone in her car.

Then the fucking redneck piece of shit in his Nascar muscle shirt jumped out of the truck and started hopping around, looking very much like a male gorilla, Murph thought. Well, an undernourished one with absolutely no body hair and had been on a PCP binge. The guy was pointing at his chest with both his hands.

"No, it's typically tha back of tha head we go fer, ya piece of shite." Connor muttered. "Jesus, I hope she's okay."

They heard Carol Beth rev her engine and honk the horn.

"We'll make sure of it." Murph said.

"Aye." Connor said, his eyes narrow, the two 9 millimeters lying neatly across his lap.

They crossed some railroad tracks and that was where the real adventure began. The traffic let up. No cops still. And the guy in the truck stopped square in the road, got out and started running toward Carol Beth's car. Carol Beth made no pretense of stopping until he was a foot from her front bumper. He slammed his fists down on the hood, and Murphy saw her reach into her glove compartment.

"Oh, fuck. I bet she's pissed. That car costs almost one hundred thousand bucks. That's tha Turbo model." Connor said.

"Conn, what tha fuck did she just pull out of tha glove box?" Murph asked with a bit of dread.

"Oh, fuck." Connor grumbled. "And he's goin' over ta her window."

Murph pulled up next to Carol Beth's car, just as the guy got a load of what she had pulled out of the glove compartment.

Brake cleaner, Murph saw, looking at the container in her hand then at the guy writhing on the pavement screaming.

"Go check on her. I'll take care of him." She screamed at them, when Connor let the window down. Murph noticed her eyes widen. "And get rid of those guns. Just check on her and get out of here. The police will be here soon."

In the rear view mirror, he saw Carol Beth continue to spray the guy with brake cleaner. Murphy figured that bloke was going to be one blind piece of trailer trash after Carol Beth got through with him. She also apparently had located her tire iron. When they stepped out of the Rover, after Connor had secured the weapons in their case, which no cop would ever find, they could hear her yelling at the guy.

"You don't treat women like that!" she screamed over and over.

"Ye think she's goin' ta kill him?" Connor asked.

"Self defense?"

"Got ta stop her." Connor said. "Ye handle this. I'll go deal with that."

Murph heard the screaming stop soon and the clank of the tire iron on the pavement, as he tapped on the glass of the passenger's side window of the pickup truck. He was nearly knocked off his feet when the girl inside threw the door open and pounced on him hugging him and thanking him.

"It's not me ye need ta thank. It's that young lady back there." Murph said sadly, tossing a look over his shoulder to Carol Beth and Connor, who had taken Carol Beth in a tight embrace and was stroking her hair. That was nice to see, a woman in his brother's arms. He looked back to this girl.

She was maybe seventeen. "So tell me what happened here."

In a flurry of thickly accented words, she told him that she had come down from Sipsey to see Joe, whom he assumed was the now still yet loudly groaning piece of dogshit lying on the ground next to Carol Beth's vehicle. Murph saw the bruises starting to rise on her throat. He saw there was no neurological damage from her eye movement although she did have quite a shiner. And Joe just went crazy. He didn't like it when she talked to other people. So that was her boyfriend? She nodded. Did she have a way to get back home? She guessed she could call her mother. Her mom was pissed at her for coming to see Joe. Her mom said Joe was no good.

"Yer mother's right. Do ya think it's right fer a man ta hit a woman?" Murph asked, hearing the police sirens finally and knowing they could easily slip out of this one. They always slipped into the American accent and they had their new IDs Smecker had arranged for them.

The girl shook her head.

"You deserve better. Is he using drugs?"

"What happened to your voice?"

"Hmm? Are they in the truck?"

"Is he going to get in trouble?"

Murph shrugged.

"I don't want him to get in trouble. I better get rid of them." She said, moving to get back in the truck.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You'll go to jail. Do you want to go to jail for someone who beats you up?" Murph asked her, feeling his temper rising.

"Your voice sounds different than before."  
The police found crystal meth in the truck, over twenty-eight grams, which Murph, Connor and Carol Beth were told carried a mandatory sentence of three years in prison. The cops thanked Carol Beth and told Joe to pipe down, that he could wash his eyes out in the holding cell after his paperwork got processed back at the station. Murph wondered if the guy would even live if he had swallowed the brake cleaner.

"It was pretty brave of y'all to help this young lady out." One of the cops said to the three of them.

"Decent human beings don't stand by and watch innocent people brutalized." Carol Beth said, still leaning against Connor.

"What's going to happen to her?" Connor asked, pointing to the young woman who was being debriefed by a police woman.

"From what she says, she doesn't want him to go to jail. Typical battered woman's syndrome."

"She told me she had come from somewhere else to visit him. Can you make sure she gets home?" Murph asked the policeman.

"That's up to her, sir."

He and Connor started digging in their pockets. Carol Beth noticed what they were doing and pulled out her wallet.

"That's a lot of money, y'all. She'll probably just buy some dope." The cop said.

Carol Beth looked at him harshly. "Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll have a change of heart. It should get her home or wherever she wants to go. Now may I give it to her and have a word?"

"Well, yes, ma'am. Of course." The cop answered and followed Carol Beth over to where the girl was talking to the police woman.

"Would ye like ta get a cup of coffee, Carol Beth, darlin'?" Murph asked softly, when she stepped back over to her car, where the twins were waiting for her.

"Coffee and a good scream?" she sighed, kissing his cheek.

"Aye." Connor said, patting her on the back.

"Granddaddy said I'd need that brake cleaner." She said, burying her face in her hands.

"Let's find a quiet restaurant." Connor said.

"Will one of you drive for me?"

"Can I make yer car go as fast as it's advertised?" Murph asked, grinning.

"Dear lord, if you two don't remind me of Granddaddy. No, Connor drives."

"Ha, I get tha Rover!" Murph chuckled.

* * *

Carol Beth was very quiet as they sat at a booth in the non-smoking section of a small restaurant, where they were practically the only customers. It would have been an ideal time for a cigarette or a whole pack but Murph knew that the time had come to stop smoking once and for all. He figured Carol Beth was in a bit of shock, fairly certain that her rage was deep seated from a memory.

"Did ye have a traumatic event in yer past, Carol Beth?" he asked.

"I was very sheltered actually. I grew up down in Gulf Shores. Other than news reports, I've never had anyone mistreat me or anyone I know." She said calmly, then she turned her eyes intently on both of them. "I was an undergraduate at Wellesley College. Then I did my PhD at Tufts. So I lived in the Boston area for quite a while."

The twins smiled uncomfortably.

"There was a news story about three men, Irishmen, in South Boston, who made a great effort to help rid the city of some of its criminals and cruelty. I remember how sick and tired I was of reading about all the violence and crime in the city, how scared I was to live in Boston, because the work for my PhD was done at a hospital smack dab in the middle of the city. Their story was intriguing and refreshing." She said, smiling back at them. "I wasn't scared of that guy. Besides, I think I had some good back up."

"Carol Beth, don't go in ta tha killin' business." Connor said, no longer smiling.

"No?"

"Ye'd ruin yer pretty clothes." Murph chuckled.

"Very true."

"So, are you those guys?"

"Carol Beth, we're the Leprechaun Hunters." Murph said, reaching into his pocket. "Here's our card."

Carol Beth took one look at it and began laughing. "You can't possibly mean?"

They both began nodding and the three of them shared a laugh. The question was never answered. They bid one another goodbye to go their separate ways, Carol Beth to Atlanta where she lived and the brothers to The Leprechaun Tree.

**A/N:**For those of you who don't understand my references to Leah, she is a character central to my other stories "When the Sun Shone on Their Faces" (Romance/Comedy) and "Out of the Palm of His Hand" (where I took away all the happiness of my writing and killed her off and made Murph and Connor kill the evil men who killed her—and Murph, Connor and I have been filled with self loathing ever since). At any rate, Leah was Connor's wife and Murph adored her too. Any references to her are not meant to make anyone sad. Connor saying her name should actually make you feel happy. It means he's healing, which also means he will bring himself to be almost as silly as Murph.


	5. Sharp Dressed Man

**A/N:** So I've never used a song to set the mood for a fic. But I've got one that applies here. And boy is it a classic. Don't turn on NPR just yet, just pull out your ZZ Top and picture Murph in his Leprechaun Hunter attire…Because you know those MacManus boys are blasting it in the Rover heading to the Leprechaun Tree.

"Sharp Dressed Man"

by ZZ Top

Clean shirt, new shoes  
and I don't know where I am goin' to.  
Silk suit, black tie,  
I don't need a reason why.  
They come runnin' just as fast as they can  
coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

Gold watch, diamond ring,  
I ain't missin' a single thing.  
And cufflinks, stick pin,  
when I step out I'm gonna do you in.  
They come runnin' just as fast as they can  
coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

Top coat, top hat,  
I don't worry coz my wallet's fat.  
Black shades, white gloves,  
lookin' sharp and lookin' for love.  
They come runnin' just as fast as they can  
coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

"We need ta go ta that Barnes and Noble, Connor. Exit here." Murphy told Connor, when he spotted a shopping center which contained the recognizable bookseller. "Right here, Connor. Here."

"Fer what?"

"Tha Leprechaun Hunter needs a big leather-bound book that's been handed down by generations through tha family, trackin' all the known leprechauns from tha old country. We'll also be requiring a leaky fountain pen ta stain tha parchment accordingly." He explained.

"I see that ye were really only interested in takin' a keg of Guinness and gettin' yer picture made in tha tree." Connor snickered, as he steered onto the exit ramp, managing only to get honked at by three cars and shot the bird by two drivers. He and Murph typically pretended they didn't understand the middle finger and waved at the people who made the gesture at them as though they were old friends. "Dumb fuckers. Look, we got a wave back. Fuckin' idiots."

"We're also gettin' ya some crossword puzzle books and that sudoku shit that's in tha paper all the time, so ye won't be so fuckin' crabby about not smokin'. And don't tell me that ya don't work them when yer sittin on tha bog. Don't even try." Murph chuckled, knowing Connor would never admit to being a toilet newspaper reader. But the walls were thin everywhere they seemed to take up residence. Even though he was certain Connor believed him to be asleep, he heard the turn of every page through the bathroom wall then a big flush **finally**. Weeping, creeping Jesus, you didn't want to breathe for at least ten minutes after Connor had been in the fucking bathroom. Good Christ, the man had never learned the concept of The Courtesy Flush. Then here would come Connor creeping out and peeping at him to make sure he was still asleep (Murph had become a master of the fake snore) and strategically (or so thought Connor) placing the newspaper and pencil on a table or microfridge or whatever random piece of crap furniture was in whatever crap room they were inhabiting that particular day. Or sometimes he would just bat Murph in the head with it and say "Get up, fucktard!" But the bottom line was: Connor was a toilet newspaper reader.

"Just keep it up, Murph. Just keep it up." Connor replied, eyes not leaving the road. Murph knew Connor would retaliate later.

"Look, Conn, here's a good one fer ya. 'Sit and Solve Sudoku.'" Murph cackled loudly, adding the toilet lid-shaped lid to the pile of puzzle books in his arms, while Connor shot him a shark-like smile which vanished instantly. "Tha publisher should probably rename it and add an 'h' in tha 'Sit' part fer people like ye."

Murph located the perfect blank book that would become the Leprechaun Log. It was possibly as large as the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary, bound in dark green leather and its pages had a near parchment-like color and texture. He found a fountain pen with ink cartridges that were almost guaranteed to leak from the nib. Murph preferred a cheap-ass ball point pen, preferably a free one, any day to a fancy pen. It was his brother who had once been a fanatical collector of high quality pens and was always so fucking anal about even the paper he would use.

"What tha--?" Murph asked, when Connor came walking up carrying two identical brown leather bags, which looked strangely familiar. They looked eerily similar to Connor's old briefcase with the shoulder strap, which Murph had always called The Connor Purse.

"It'll hold tha new laptop. But tha Leprechaun Log has ta have a special bag of its own, a bag of honor. And we'll have tha camera and the camcorder. So we each get a bag."

Hold your damn tongue, Murph thought. Don't say a damn thing about the man purse. "Aye, good thinkin', Conn. So have we got everythin' before we head to Tha Tree?"

Murph wrote frantically in the Leprechaun Log as he and Connor tore down I-65 to Mobile in the last stretch of their journey. They made up ridiculous names for leprechauns: Bonzi O'Lattery, Sneaky O'Fiddles, Twitchy O'Shamrock, Fluffy Ettercap, Paddy Greenknickers, Tweedle Potfiller, Lucky Whiskeybreath, and the especially elusive and cunning fraternal leprechaun twins Dirtfoot and Twindle McPixie. Each leprechaun was given a veritable chapter in the giant book, on which much ink leaked as well as on Murph's fingers—don't ye get that shite on tha fuckin' seats, Murph, damn ye! Murph considered flicking the pen at Connor but decided against it, knowing violence—serious violence—would erupt. Yet it would have been funny to see the look on Connor's face when the ink splattered all over him and his precious Rover's interior. One of those Mastercard moments that were on the telly: priceless, absolutely fucking priceless. Instead, Murph just created biographies for the leprechauns, including their believed points of origin, estimated net worth and suspected fairy associations.

"Hey, Conn, will ye draw some pictures of the leprechauns?" he asked, as they neared the city of Mobile, Alabama.

"I can't draw in a moving car. If ye want ta get there in this lifetime—who tha hell are ya always callin' Mr. Pouty Pants? Okay, fine. We'll switch drivers. But don't think they're goin' ta be high quality drawins." Connor sighed, flipping on the turn signal. "Besides we've still got ta find a place ta get a keg of Guinness."

"Somehow, we always find beer easily."

"Are you having a big party?" one of the guys asked at the liquor store, which they found easily and where they acquired the kegs. They decided to take two, seeing that there had been people coming from as far away as Atlanta to "see" the leprechaun.

"Goin' ta one. And so could ya help us with some directions?" Murph asked, grinning, as he emerged from their bathroom.

Connor burst out laughing.

"Is me bloody Hanna Walking Hat on straight?" Murph chuckled.

He still couldn't believe he was wearing argyle socks and wing tips. And a damn cardigan sweater. He had laughed at himself in the small bathroom mirror of the liquor store. With the soft suede gloves over his hands and the turtle neck under his shirt and sweater, none of his tattoos were visible. He looked utterly respectable, ridiculous and nearly middle-aged. It was a little frightening although rather amusing. There wasn't even a cigarette with an exceptionally long ash to provide some irony or at least the utmost pleasure.

"Lookin' right sharp there." Connor snickered. "So we're tryin' ta get ta this neighborhood called Crichton, where the people saw a—"

"Looking for the gold, are ya?" the guy behind the counter laughed.

"Not exactly." Connor said. "This idiot wants his picture taken in tha tree, so we're goin' ta offer tha Guinness as a trade."

"I know my mama always made me dress up for pictures at school, so I think you're probably on the right track." The guy chuckled. "You're not far. They're still having huge crowds, so I imagine it'll be quite a party."

Murph and Connor looked at each other and grinned. The bigger the crowd the better. Murph knew Connor could hardly wait to put The Leprechaun Detector to good use.


	6. Seamus and Anus

**A/N:**Thanks to all of you who have been reading and reviewing. The Leprechaun Hunter grows ever closer to his goal…Cheers, Bel.

* * *

"This is a step up from some of tha places we've been over tha years." Murph commented, as Connor steered The Rover into the Crichton neighborhood of Mobile about an hour or so before sunset.

The streets were filled with pot holes and lined with various shotgun houses, separated by chain link fences, holding junk cars and unkempt yards. Yes, he and Connor had seen much worse. And despite the fact it was the middle of winter, it was fifty degrees outside unlike Youngstown which they had left with snow on the ground and highs only in the twenties. They had definitely seen much worse.

"Aye. But tha houses need a shitload of work on them." Connor nodded. "Looks like this is tha place, Seamus O'Farrell, Leprechaun Hunter."

Cars were lined up on the side of the street. They could see a big crowd of people at the end of the road. A guy in fatigues and coveralls on the side of the road was waving to them.

"Connor, pull over. He wants ta talk. It's tha guy from tha telly with tha Leprechaun flute! Ta ward off tha spells, remember? Crap, Connor, get tha camcorder out. Ye've got ta get this!"

"As ye wish, sir."

Murph rolled down the window, pulling one of the Leprechaun Hunter cards out of the box, while Connor clicked on the camcorder. "Good evenin' ta ye, sir."

"You boys goin' down to see the leprechaun?" The man asked, peering into the Rover.

No, I'm wearing argyle socks and a bloody cardigan for my fucking health, Murph thought.

"Aye." Murph said, handing him the card with an eager smile that threatened to turn into a grin then a laugh. This was going to be difficult to pull off without laughing. It had been a damn long time since he and Connor had pulled a bullshit prank like this one.

"Yeah, we've had a few of you come through here. Want to buy a flute? Ten bucks for one or I've got a special right now for fifteen bucks for two. They're based on an original Irish design, handed down through my family for thousands of generations. They ward off spells."

"Uh, no thanks. I think we'll be okay. We're not tryin' ta steal tha leprechaun's gold or anythin'. We come in peace." Murph said, trying to keep a straight face and knowing better than to look at Connor, when he lifted his hand and gave the guy the Vulcan salute.

The guy looked thoroughly unimpressed, did not return the salute and merely said with a shrug and a sigh, "Well, that's gonna be ten bucks to park. And if y'all change your minds about a flute, here's **my** card. You can order them off the website. The shipping's very reasonable."

Thinking the guy would probably use one of those pipes as dual duty to scratch Connor's sacred Rover, Murph angrily scrounged around and found ten dollars and handed it to the guy, who pointed them to a spot on the side of the street where they would be permitted to park. Murph looked at Connor who was wearing a not so slightly forlorn expression.

"He didn't seem very impressed with tha' business card, Murph." Connor said in a surprisingly small voice. Connor was obviously disappointed. "Ours is on better cardstock and it even has an Irish blessing on it."

"Connor, that bastard's extortin' ten bucks off people ta park on a fuckin' public street! Who gives a fuck what he thinks!" Murph replied with gusto. "My question is do ye think he would have charged us parkin' if we'd bought that fuckin' flute? Irish design, me arse! Fuckin' Home Depot special is what that is! Better yet, he probably found tha pipe in a bloody scrapyard, seein' all tha dead iron around here! Christ almighty, all ye need for that bloody piece of shite is a pipe cutter and a fuckin' drill press! Bloody extortionist bastard!"

Connor just nodded, still bearing a frown, his head ducked a bit. "I bet someone's already come with a Leprechaun Detector."

"Perhaps, but not as sophisticated a piece of equipment as yers, brother, I'm sure. And remember, if these people are shites ta us, we've got two kegs of Guinness in tha back of tha Rover that we can drink ourselves. We don't have ta share them with bloody extortin' opportunistic bastards like that one." Murph said, squeezing his brother's shoulder encouragingly.

"True." Connor said, smiling again. "So had you ever heard of a fuckin' Leprechaun Flute before that bastard was on tha bloody telly?"

"Fuck no." Murph grinned. "Alright, it's Seamus and Angus O'Farrell, the real Leprechaun Hunters."

"Chin chin ta that. Bloody bastard." Connor said, cutting off the engine of the Rover. "Didn't seem impressed with The Leprechaun Mobile a bit."

"Connor, we've got a bloody Land Rover! A Land Rover! It's ours. Who tha fuck cares about a leprechaun! We get ta keep tha Land Rover!"

"True. But—aye, Murph—I mean, Seamus, yer right. And she is a beautiful thing, isn't she?"

"She's bloody fantastic." Murph chuckled. "Now let's unload her and do our jobs."

"Should I cock tha Hanna Hat or not?" Murph asked Connor, as they began unloading the Rover, each grabbing a matching leather bag and Connor, taking The Leprechaun Detector in his other hand. Connor carefully clicked the locks on the Rover, arming the alarm, and for the last few moments, had been muttering a steady stream of something like: if anyone lays one bloody finger on ye, I'll blow their fuckin' head off, ye beautiful thing. We'll get ye a wash and wax in tha morn, I promise. That bastard didn't even take notice of ye. Bloody bastard. If anybody touches ye, ye let out a scream, and I'll be right here. The fuckers, they'll all be lookin' at ya.

Murph knew better than to laugh at Connor. Truthfully, he was delighted to see his brother in such a state. If it took a petrol-guzzling SUV, a chance encounter with an angel wielding a can of brake cleaner and a tire iron and the ridiculous idea of a leprechaun to cause this resurgence of eccentricity in his brother, Murph eagerly awaited the surprises ahead. However, the irony of the Rover was that Connor always pissed and moaned about "petrol-hogs" and here he was driving one and loving it.

"Stand in front of The Leprechaun Mobile, Angus." Murph said, grabbing the camera from Connor. Here was one for a family album or maybe an eight by ten, Murph thought with a grin to himself. "We haven't made a photo of her yet."

"Aye, we haven't." Connor said, then posed for the picture then directed Murph to pose in front of the car. "Yer turn."

When they walked down the road toward the famed tree, they could see a crowd had already gathered. Connor pulled out the camcorder and started filming.

"This gizmo is right posh, Murph." Connor commented.

"Seamus, now." Murph retorted. "This looks like a fuckin' circus. Good lord, please don't let anyone be wearin' tha fuckin' circus clown makeup."

"Ye've got ta get over yer phobia, **Seamus**."

"Fuck ye, Angus." Murph said, and when he said Angus, he made the "g" almost imperceptible and planned to do so the rest of the evening. "What ye don't know is that approximately twenty percent of tha population of tha developed world has Coulrophobia. Fuckin' hate clowns—"

"You guys want to buy some t-shirts?" interrupted a voice.

Connor and Murphy looked over to the person to whom the voice belonged. A teenager was sitting a table away from the crowd around the tree. The table was piled with shirts of all different colors.

Connor and Murph exchanged a bemused look.

"Mine are much better than all the other guys'. Theirs will tear up after one wash. And Jason's shirts over there, the ink on his runs. The ink on Mike's shirts is so bad you can barely see the designs and that's even before you wash 'em."

"We've at least got ta get this shit on tha camcorder." Murph mumbled quietly.

"Aye, good thinkin', Seamus." Connor said.

They stepped over to the table, and with one peek at the shirts, Murph knew better than to look at his brother. The "amateur sketch" of the leprechaun had been printed on the shirts he spotted.

"Oh, man, you're gonna have to cut off that camera. I can't have people stealing my designs. That's my policy." The kid who couldn't been more than sixteen told Connor somewhat officiously.

"And an intricate design it is." Murph whispered to Connor, who gingerly pressed a button on the camera with an extremely exaggerated motion, while suppressing a laugh yet keeping the camera held to his cheek.

"So are you pretending to be Irish or something?" the kid asked.

"Or so we've been accused recently." Murph snickered, then was elbowed by his brother who started laughing too. "Do ye think our accents are really crap?"

"I've heard better."

"Of course ye have. So how much fer a shirt?" Connor asked.

"Twenty bucks."

"Twenty? Are ye full of shite, kid?" Connor recoiled, removing his fingers from the shirt he had been touching. "Feel this, Seamus. This is no twenty dollar shirt, mate."

"Hell, t'would be practically obscene ta wear this." Murph continued. "Body parts be showin' through and tha like."

"Fifteen bucks then."

"We'll go have a look at tha others, thank ye very much." Connor said. "Especially after ye implied we weren't Irish."

"Okay, ten bucks."

"Well, maybe we can do ten bucks." Murph said, glancing at Connor with a grin peeking through his good cop persona.

"I still think we should look around, Seamus." Connor said, playing bad cop.

"Eight bucks!"

"We'll take two." Connor answered.

"Did ye really turn tha camera off?" Murph chuckled, as they stuffed the shirts into their bags, while walking away.

"Hell no, I got tha whole thin'." Connor answered with glee.

"Ye look like ye want ta do a riverdance there, Angus."

"Oh, shut it, ye retard."

* * *

Before they ever made it to the Leprechaun Tree, they had to pay an entrance fee three times. The first one they figured was pure extortion. However, they paid it for two good reasons. First of all, Murph wanted to get to the tree and was determined to get up in it and have his damn picture made. And secondly, the two guys that asked for the entry fee were dressed up in little green jackets, shoes with big buckles on them and giant green hats. If they were willing to dress up like that, like leprechauns on fucking Halloween, Connor and Murphy figured they deserved the money. The other two entry fees were donations, one for the neighborhood community center and then one for a local church that was trying to build a new playground. And everyone knew Connor and Murphy always dug deeply in their pockets for things of that nature, even if they didn't know Connor and Murphy.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, this is like St. Paddy's on crack." Murph mumbled to Connor, as they walked closer to the tree past all sorts of vendors.

"Remember tha explanation tha granny lady gave fer tha leprechaun on tha telly. Perhaps yer not so far off. Oh, this is bloody ridiculous." Connor laughed, taking it all in on the camcorder.

"Yer gettin' all of it, I hope?"

"Abso-fuckin-lutely." Connor grinned.

In the yards of the homes adjacent to the actual leprechaun tree, tables were set up, where people were selling green beer, leprechaun outfits (which possibly explained the entrance fee-collectors), corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, more leprechaun flutes, and even more leprechaun flutes (What the fuck was a leprechaun flute for anyway? The little bastards carved shoes. They didn't cast spells for fuck's sake!), t-shirts with that ridiculous amateur sketch of the leprechaun on them, and what the fuck was that horrible music playing? Was that drivel supposed to be Irish? It sounded like someone was playing a recording of bagpipe backwards through a fucked-up subwoofer.

Typical Irish stereotypes, Murph thought. Irish don't drink green beer and we don't eat corned beef and cabbage. In fact, we eat very little beef at all. Lamb stew, yes. Soda bread, yes. Vegetables and cheese. Bloody excellent cheese, actually. Seafood too, because we're quite close to the water. Not much land for grazing bloody cattle! He would never get over working in a meat-packing plant. American beef was fucking disgusting. Dear lord, Murph thought, and that fucking green beer. And they were selling that shite for three dollars a cup! This was bloody hideous. And everyone had on a bloody green leprechaun hat, and, oh, dear Christ, some of them with leprechaun masks hanging off them! And you too could have your very own for the low low price of ten dollars. Connor whispered that he bet he could argue them down to five bucks, so Seamus could have his very own mask. Don't fuck with me, Angus! And that particular "g" was getting extremely silent. They're goddam, fuckin'—fuckin' LEPRECLOWNS is what they are!

"Are ye ready ta go ta work, Seamus?" Connor whispered, after they perused the goods thoroughly. There was even a man there selling signed photocopies of the amateur sketch of the leprechaun. Presumably, this was the artist. Dear lord, Murph thought, twenty bucks for a signed photocopy of a drawing any kid could have made? And you could see that it had been originally drawn on a legal pad too. The lines showed through. Now there was some high quality merchandise for you.

"Aye. Is tha Leprechaun Detector ready?" Murph whispered back, trying not to look at the creepy, creepy Lepreclowns. Can't sleep, Lepreclown will eat me!

Connor nodded conspiratorially. They grinned at each other and set their plan into motion.

A crowd of approximately seventy or so people had gathered around the tree. Chatter abounded within the crowd. Daily gossip was the conversation of some, whereas some were discussing the appearance of the leprechaun in great detail. A few people stood in the crowd telling their past encounters with the leprechaun. These tales, however, they would only share for a fee. Or one could just stand nearby. One guy had recorded his story and was selling DVDs of it at a table but he would give a live tour every thirty minutes at a fee of five dollars per person.

With a nod to Murph, Connor depressed the hidden switch on The Leprechaun Detector that caused the device to emit a rather annoying sound. Connor could adjust the volume and the rapidity with which the bursts were emitted, as though a gradient to the presence of a leprechaun was being established.

"Oi, Angus, are ye gettin' anythin' yet?" Murph asked loudly.

"'Tis a bit faint, Seamus. But I am pickin' up a signal. Yes, a signal indeed. Ah, here we are. Let's follow tha Detector, Seamus." Connor replied equally as loudly, stepping toward the tree, the Leprechaun Detector shoved out prominently before him.

Now, people were beginning to take notice of them. Connor began raising the volume of the Leprechaun Detector's emissions as they snaked through the crowd.

"Excuse us. Pardon us. Sorry. Excuse us, please." Murph said politely and magnanimously, tipping his Hanna hat as he followed his brother with the camcorder. "What are ye gettin' there Angus?"

"Oi, there's definitely been activity here. Without a doubt. It seems as though it's stronger in this direction, Seamus." Connor answered.

"Who are you?" one of the payable "tour guides" demanded, as they tried to pass. This was a guy who claimed to have seen the leprechaun on two separate evenings, or so said his ad poster. He claimed to have spoken with the leprechaun and promised to divulge the conversation that had passed between them if you paid the ten dollar fee for his tour.

"Seamus and Anus O'Farrell, Leprechaun Hunters." Murph handed the guy one of the business cards.

Green beer in hand, all four people on his tour and a few other interested onlookers turned their attention to the newly arrived O'Farrell brothers.

"What's that thing for?" asked a child of probably eight or nine, pointing to the Leprechaun Detector.

"Aye, wee one, this would be our Leprechaun Detector. 'Tis a device designed ta determine if there has been leprechaun activity in a particular area. It is a very important tool in our work." Connor said to the child with a wry smile, as he dropped to his knee.

"Aye, so it is." Murph agreed and began his oration.

"We come from tha old country, from County Wexford, Ireland. We have traveled tha world, as our forefathers before us, charged with tha mission of convincin' our leprechauns ta come back home. 'Tis not their gold we seek. No, their gold is none of our concern. The leprechauns are tha ancient guardians of our land. Their eyes have seen tha years pass as have no others. They cobbled their tiny shoes and cavorted with tha fairies on tha green hills long before tha Iron Age, long before tha comin' of the Celts, long before tha mighty Cu Chulainn. Tha Fae folk know tha history that was never committed ta paper. Tha violence that has wreaked havoc on our homeland fer so many years is slowly comin' ta a close and we've a great parcel of land set aside for tha leprechauns, where they need never be disturbed by the goin' and doin' of man and his futile acts. So me brother, Anus, and I travel tha world tryin' ta find our leprechauns and ta tell them home is safe again, that they can return, ta their rightful home, beautiful, magnificent Eire. Isn't that right, Anus?" As Murphy spoke, more people in the crowd gathered and hung on his every word.

When Murphy became silent once more, a hush fell over the fascinated audience. Of course, it could have just been the effect of the foul green beer. Connor murmured an "Aye, 'tis so."

Then one gray-haired old man stepped forward, looked straight at Connor and said, "Boy, is he calling you 'Anus?'"

Connor shot Murph a murderous glance and said kindly to the older gentleman, "It's Angus, sir. Angus O'Farrell."

"Come now, **Anus**, no time ta waste here. Whichever one of tha Fae folk it is could be long gone. Time is of tha essence,**Anus**." Murph said, urging Connor forward.

"See, boy, he did it again. He's calling you 'Anus.'"

Soon everybody in the crowd wanted to help "Anus" and was pointing him in the direction of the tree and the spot where the leprechaun had been spotted. Cries of "Right here, Anus" and "No, right there, Anus" were heard amidst fervent pointing at specific branches on the tall tree, which Murph was glad to see was still standing and had not been uprooted by a backhoe.

When he waved the Leprechaun Detector over a limb full of lichens, Connor pressed a button and the yellow flood lights on the Leprechaun Detector lit up, as the contraption gave off the most horrible round of noises yet.

Despite the fact he knew Connor was immensely bent out of shape for being called Anus not only by his brother but by the entire crowd repeatedly, they behaved according to plan.

With a look of total shock on their faces in unison, they proclaimed, "Blimey, it's Bonzi O'Lattery!"


	7. The Leprechaun Tree

"Me goodness, Anus, Bonzi's not been spotted since tha late eighties when Da last encountered him in Greece. What, in Monemvassia, wasn't it?" Murph cried, extracting the heavy Leprechaun log from his Connor Purse. It was an extraordinarily soft leather, but he would never tell Connor that.

"I believe so, Seamus. Wasn't he sitting on a high perch of rocks just watching tha Sea, as I recall?" Connor replied, as Murph began to thumb through the book much to the interest of the onlookers, who closely huddled around them.

"Ah, yes. Here he is. Bonzi O'Lattery, last spotted Monemvassia, Greece, 1982. Blimey, tha little bugger does travel. Oh, here Da mentions he was quite tha trickster." Murph chuckled, smirking at Connor.

"Oh, I believe it." One of the crowd piped up. "Whenever you shined a light on him, he would disappear."

"Aye, they're known ta do that. 'Tis a shame ye didn't have any warning from tha experts on how ta deal with his sort before he visited, because from tha looks of it, he defiled yer nice tree quite a lot." Connor answered.

"What do you mean defiled?" another person in the crowd demanded.

"Well, ye see those lichens there? Seamus will have ta take a closer look at them, of course, but it looks like Bonzi left quite a bit o'scat on yer tree there." Connor said, pointing.

"You mean that goddam leprechaun took a dump on the tree?"

Murph and Connor nodded, trying not to laugh.

"We'll be needin' a sample, of course, fer laboratory testin'." Murph said. "We have a DNA library of the leprechauns on file at tha Institute."

"The Institute?"

"Aye, part of tha conservation effort for tha leprechauns was ta set up an institute devoted ta tha study of them. Its headquarters are based right outside of Dublin. It's not a very large research center but we are very proud ta say it is staffed by fourteen full-time employees, includin forensic scientists, historians and paleontologists ta house and study fossils of leprechaun objects and such. We also have three healthcare providers on hand for tha little folk, when they require medical attention. Tweedle Potfiller had a bad run-in with an RPG when he was over in Syria. If not for tha Institute, we would have lost him. Glad to say old Tweedle's doin' just fine now and livin' in his own little cabin in tha western hills of tha preservation area. Just some minor scarrin'." Murph said as if on cue then looked down at the Leprechaun Log and began scrawling notes, drawing the tree and diagramming the site of Bonzi's appearance.

"I can't believe that goddam leprechaun took a crap on the tree! Little son of a bitch!" insisted the man, who had pointed out to Connor time and again that Murphy had been referring to him as "Anus."

"Now, sir, tha feces of a leprechaun is actually good luck. In tha old country, many people will take a bit of it and put it in a locket or a charm and wear it as a piece of jewelry. Much like tha reliquaries of tha saints." Connor said, drawing Murphy's attention from the book. Now that was a really good one, Murph thought.

"Yes, there's quite a black market fer such in tha old country. We have a special division at tha Institute devoted ta tracking down some of tha more ancient specimens. Among tha Irish, these pieces of jewelry become family heirlooms, ye see. Quite valuable. Often part of a lass' weddin' trousseau or her dowry." Murph added, not looking up from the Leprechaun Log and hoping his voice was not shaking too much with laughter. And the Irish were supposed to be the masters of straight-faced bullshit. How the hell could you keep a straight face with this crap pouring out of your mouth, he wondered.

"And how much do you think you could get for one of those charm pieces?" asked the guy who had been autographing the amateur sketch at the nearby table but had abandoned said table to listen to the tale of The Leprechaun Hunters, once the mention of a potential new money-making enterprise arose. At least Connor had not suggested they chew the lichens like tobacco for good luck.

"They're actually called 'Lucky Charms,' sir." Connor said, and Murph could tell his brother was about to lose it.

"Like the cereal?" a nearby child asked.

"Absolutely, wee one." Murph said. "Odd ye should mention it. We're quite certain that General Mills is in possession of tha largest Lucky Charm collection in North America. We believe it is what made their company grow to be tha massive food conglomerate it is today. Tha Lucky Charms truly do bring luck, ye see. Quite magical. But I am goin' ta have ta climb tha tree ta determine if Bonzi did indeed leave his veritable callin' card, if ye kin?"

"Don't you be stealing the leprechaun shit, mister! It's our tree!" shouted the amateur sketch artist.

Murph suppressed a laugh into a cough, as Connor did the same, and in doing so nearly dropped the camcorder.

"Well, you know there is another magical property associated with leprechaun excrement that these young men I assume just haven't gotten around to explaining yet."

Murph turned around and saw a tall, middle-aged woman he guessed to be in her mid-forties with smooth honey-colored skin, a raised brow and a smirk on her face. It was true, he thought. Leave it to a beautiful woman to make my mind go blank. And why are they always smirking at me? Because they know I'm full of shit. Oh Christ, here she comes, gliding toward me in her jeans and brown turtleneck sweater that fits in all the right places. Dammit, her smirk is getting bigger.

"What other magical properties?" demanded a creepy Lepreclown, also approaching Murphy.

Murphy shot Connor a desperate look as the Goddess of Crichton, Alabama peered over his shoulder and examined the Leprechaun Log, then chuckled. Connor's knowing look brought a blush to his cheeks. Dammit! And then the goddess was eyeing his crappy diagram of the tree.

"Would ye be talkin' about tha capacity of tha leprechaun leavins to regenerate if ye don't scrape them away in their entirety, ma'am?" Connor asked her with a wink.

"Yes, I am, Anus." She answered in a voice brimming with laughter. With one long brown finger, she pointed to the tree Murphy had drawn and whispered, "If you were one of my students, I'd give you a gold star for that drawing."

Murphy felt his cheeks burn.

"Mrs. Langtry, how does the poop come back by itself?" asked a small child in the crowd, who rushed up to her.

"Well, Amber, why don't you ask Seamus here? I am sure he would be happy to explain it to you, now wouldn't you, Seamus?" said the lovely Mrs. Langtry, who Murph guessed was the little girl's teacher.

Never one to back away from a challenge, Murph cleared his throat and spoke, despite the fact he had begun to sweat profusely. "Well, it's quite simple to understand if ye believe in tha leprechauns and their magic. Wherever they go, they leave a bit of themselves. Of course, it may be in tha form of fecal matter, but even their fecal matter is magical. So, wee one, when a leprechaun chooses a spot as his sanctuary, whether permanent or temporary, he will mark it, and from then on, his charms will remain, if we humans don't take steps ta completely remove his precious magic from that place. Tha leprechauns are a generous folk with their magic--can be a bit stingy with their gold though--but they don't mind sharin' their magic manure. So, if ye take care of that tree there and don't scrape too much of tha leavins of Bonzi away, what he left will always return in time and grow perhaps, should ye be very lucky."

"So just how much can you take?" demanded another Lepreclown. Weeping creeping jesus, they were creepy.

"About half of it, I'd say. But only from tha edges, wouldn't ye agree, Mrs. Langtry?" Murph smirked into her face.

"Definitely."

"But first, I've got ta determine if tha feces is really there."

And thus began the climb.

The shoes clearly had no traction. And his wool cardigan kept getting hung up on the bark of the tree. And, no, it was not funny that someone's loose dog stuck its nose in the seat of his pants when he was trying to shimmy up to the lowest limb. Oh, but everyone let out a laugh at that. At least Fido didn't take a bite out of his bum. And that stupid Hanna Hat kept falling in his eyes. He threw it down on the ground. Two little kids started fighting over who got to try it on first. Connor yelled up at him that the limb he was getting ready to step on would not support his weight—

He had taken bigger falls, but in front of much smaller crowds. He knew he could not yell his usual string of obscenities in front of the children and the lovely Mrs. Langtry. Most of the crowd was agreeing that Anus should climb the tree. Apparently, Anus looked like he could climb a tree better. Someone said Anus' butt wasn't as big.

"Perhaps ye need some rope, Seamus." Connor suggested with a grin, as Murph got back to his feet again from the muddy spot in which he had fallen. Oh, you and your fucking rope, Connor, he thought.

He broke four branches on the way to "The Bonzi Branch," which fortunately was sturdy enough to hold him. Despite being covered in mud from his fall, with leaves in his sweater and hair and smudges of dirt on his face, he had reached his goal. He was sitting in The Leprechaun Tree.

The crowd let out a cheer. Connor snapped pictures as Murph grinned for the camera.

But when he looked down and saw so many Lepreclowns staring back at him from so far below, a mixture of nausea and total panic set in.

**A/N: Regarding someone being so tacky as to say that Murph's posterior is larger than Connor's, this does not reflect my personal opinion or knowledge. This comes from a video I saw on youtube with Norman Reedus talking about filming BDS comparing his backside to SPF's. I just couldn't resist. Thanks for reading and reviews are always appreciated and enjoyed. Beware of those creepy lepreclowns! Cheers, Bel.**


	8. I'll Tumble For Ya

**A/N: After a long hiatus, the boys are back and almost to the end of this little adventure. Thanks to all of you who have been reading and all of you who have been sending messages telling me to get off my duff and write. It's been a busy month or so. Much love to you all, Bel.**

Murph had never been one to vomit at the sight of blood or foul smells. He was not particularly squeamish to much of anything in the way of bodily functions (most of which he found amusing). This quality had made him an excellent medical student. He was, however, though few would have guessed it of the often jovial and mischievous Irishman, extremely phobic. He could explain with textbook precision to anyone who cared to ask the origin of said phobias: the night when he had been helpless to protect his brother's wife. He could also explain that the subsequent course his life had taken following that trauma were not a prescribed regimen for a successful recovery.

While for the most part he remained the lovable goof he had always been, Murphy MacManus had indeed acquired some personality baggage over the years. This included acrophobia, i.e. the fear of heights, which is estimated to afflict one out of every five individuals. Some experts say that the particular height at which one is standing is not the key issue associated with the fear. It is primarily the feeling of destabilization associated with one's feet not being on familiar ground.

Of course, the best thing for Dr. MacManus to overcome his fear was an activity such as the one in which he was currently engaged, one any psychiatrist would call a counterphobic activity: in Murph's case, the climbing of The Leprechaun Tree. It had been a successful climb after a few initial slips, scrapes (remember Dr. MacManus did not fear blood in the least), and laughter at his expense (upon which Dr. MacManus not so secretly thrived). However, in his desire to have this event recorded for sentimental reasons, because Murphy MacManus was highly sentimental and also because he was eager to locate his old friend Kati over the internet, now that the brothers were in possession of a computer for the purpose of sending her the trip video, Murph had lingered a bit too long on the now famed Bonzi Branch, bowing and showing off for the crowd.

The crowd. Hmm, you say. Wasn't this the crowd full of people wearing leprechaun masks with highly exaggerated features, so exaggerated in fact that those features could be interpreted perhaps as…clown-like? You, dear reader, are absolutely correct.

To set the scene properly, let us examine it from our beloved Murph's perspective, as he showboated about on the Bonzi Branch, much to the delight of the crowd, in which many were those Murph himself had deemed "those fucking creepy lepreclowns." The night had grown quite cool, despite his thick Irish wool cardigan and dapper turtleneck, and he had begun to feel a bit chilled. He suddenly noticed he was shivering a bit. After all, why shouldn't he have been? Shivering was perfectly normal, he told himself, glancing down at the crowd below. After all, his posh trousers were a fine wool gabardine suitable for year-round wear and they were damp, both from his initial falls to the wet ground and also from the nose of the errant dog, who had so deftly targeted his backside for a rather deeply probing inspection. Fucking alien wannabee dog. Members of the crowd, possibly the fucking creepy lepreclowns themselves, had lit upwards of about fifty Tiki torches, and the odor of citronella filled Murphy's nose. He was certain no mosquitoes were swarming this time of year, and that godawful citronella smoke seemed to be devouring all available oxygen, he thought, as he felt himself struggling to breathe. It was the smoke that was making it hard to breathe after all. And he was not so completely mentally impaired that he could not scoff and imagine that every fucking Wal-Mart within a ten mile radius must have been cleaned out of their entire inventory of Tiki torches and shitronella oil. But alas, our Murph was in no state by this point to thoroughly ponder his innate hatred of Wal-Mart and its exploitative corporate policies, as he often did while reading the daily newspaper of whatever city he and Connor happened to be inhabiting. At present, Murph gulped in whatever air he could and reflected upon the primal use of fire as a means of lighting the area and saw that every fucking lepreclown as well as every fucking one else was staring at him. Can't get down, creepy fucking lepreclowns will eat me. You see, while Murphy MacManus had received an outstanding education at Harvard University to obtain his medical degree and had completed three rotations in psychiatric disciplines, none of his classical education mattered at this moment. Rather, he was haunted by William Golding's Lord of the Flies which he had read as a much younger man and Francis Ford Coppola'sApocolypse Now which he had seen too many times on late night television and recently in Youngstown. Murph saw the shadows cast by the Tiki torches on the faces of the fucking creepy lepreclowns giving them, in his humble and somewhat hysterical opinion, a more surreal and perverse appearance and he imagined his own head on a stick. His prowess with a Beretta or his beloved Rambo knife mattered little in this situation.

Combined phobias can be very difficult to conquer much less live with, especially when put into an extreme situation. If queried, Murph would answer that this situation could be considered somewhat extreme.

The vertigo was bad enough, he thought, grabbing the trunk of the tree. But he knew he shouldn't have eaten that fu—

"I puked, didn't I?" he asked, looking up at Connor, who knelt next to him.

Connor's face had read pure concern at first, then he saw a smirk coming. "Aye."

"Did I land in it?"

"No." Connor whispered, as a grin threatened to take hold of his face, "but ye splattered some of yer lepreclowns pretty bad, Murph. Christ, can ye move, man?"

Murph heard the disgruntled cries of members of the crowd and lots of shuffling about. People were asking if they could use neighbors' waterhoses.

"Should we call an ambulance?" asked the lovely Mrs. Langtry, who had come to Connor's side. Her lovely features were focused solely on him. "Seamus, are you hurt?"

"I think I'm fine." Murph said, getting to his feet. "I just feel like a bit of an idiot."

"Ye are, so it's only natural that ye'd feel that way." Connor chuckled but Murph knew his brother was concerned.

"Shame on you, Anus." Mrs. Langtry laughed, taking Murph's arm. "Are you sure you're alright, Seamus?"

"Yes, I think so. I'll probably be black and blue tomorrow and have an aching bum, but I believe I'm fine."

"You fell on your leg though, Seamus."

"It doesn't hurt, I promise. If it starts ta, I'll get some treatment, okay?" Murph told her and considered tripping, so that she would lean over him again and he could look up into her lovely face, which was complimented by the light of the Tiki torches. But he knew that would be—well, juvenile. So, the whole trip had been juvenile. But faking an injury was even beneath him, even if it had been a while since he had seen someone intriguing.

"Well, Harold, my husband, will be home from work soon and he will have a look at you." She said, dashing all of Murph's hopes, as she glanced at her watch. "He's an orthopedic surgeon."

"Is he a good husband? Is he good ta ye?" Murph blurted before he could stop himself.

Mrs. Langtry raised her brow and laughed, then brushed some leaves from Murphy's sweater. "Yes, Seamus, he is, since you ask. You can find out for yourself if you like. We're having a fundraising dinner at the community center tonight. We had an unexpected expenditure a month ago when a tornado came through. We lost part of the roof. So, we've got to raise money to cover some of our other programs like the Food Bank, the emergency rent and utility bills payment service, and our battered women's self-sufficiency program. We would love it if you and Anus would attend. It's five dollars for all you can eat. We've got people cooking up all sorts things to bring. Everything will be homemade. My next door neighbor, Miss Sims, who is eighty-two, has been cooking pies all day. She said she still had some blackberries she had preserved from this summer she was going to use. The whole community will come out, we hope. It should be so much fun. We'll have music. Games for the children. We do hope you will come. I know people want to visit with you. Well, the ones who were smart enough to get out of the way in time."

Murph and Connor looked at each other. Connor grinned. Murph grimaced. This sounded like heaven, except Murph had one question.

"Mrs. Langtry, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, Seamus."

"Will tha lepreclowns be wearin' their masks?"

Murph turned bright red as soon as he said it.

"Will the what?" asked Mrs. Langtry in all concerned seriousness.

Connor laughed. "He's terrified of clowns. And tha leprechaun masks are givin' him tha willies."

"Oh dear. Seamus, you poor thing. No wonder you fell out of the tree." Mrs. Langtry said, rubbing Murph between his shoulder blades. Dear God, this was worth the trip alone. "One question, you two, why are you really here?"

Murph and Connor looked at each other.

"I wanted me picture taken in tha tree. And ta make sure it didn't get uprooted. T'would be a shame. I could see on tha telly it was on old tree and quite a nice one." Murph confessed, looking down at his shoes then back into her curious face. "And we wanted ta go on a vacation. It looked like everybody was havin' such a good time with tha idea of tha leprechaun on tha telly."

"Well, it has been quite the adventure for this community." She sighed. "So you came on your vacation to Crichton, Alabama? From where?"

"Up north." Connor answered. "We've been living in Ohio fer a while now. It's bitter cold there and quite dismal."

"What do you do there?" she asked.

"We protect and serve tha community, ma'am." Murph chuckled, tipping the Hanna Hat one of the children had returned to him.

That was their stock answer whenever anyone asked to them. The questioner always then assumed they were cops, but the answer was true. Protecting and serving the community was their job description, when they weren't eating bad take-out food, hiding in rat-trap motels and getting shitfaced.

"We've brought a couple of kegs of Guinness Extra Stout, Mrs. Langtry." Connor said. "We wanted tha people here ta taste real Irish beer. Can we donate them ta yer fundraiser?"

"Absolutely. Sounds fantastic. I haven't had a Guinness in years."

"Cheryl, I'm going to head on over and start the chicken." The elderly gentleman, who had repeatedly pointed out that Murph was referring to Connor as Anus, said suddenly to Mrs. Langtry.

"Oh, thank you, Raymond. I know everyone'll be clamoring for it. It's such a treat that you are willing to cook your chicken for us tonight." She replied with a smile. So her name was Cheryl. "I'll be there in just a few minutes. We'll round up the herd. Seamus and Anus have brought two kegs of Guinness for us."

"Well, I expect you'll be parking those in the kitchen." He chuckled, winking at Connor. "If you keep me in beer, I'll keep you in chicken, young man."

"Raymond fixes the world's best chicken. You're in for a gourmet meal. He fries the chicken the old fashioned way in an electric skillet."

Cheryl's pride in Raymond's cooking techniques were somewhat lost on Connor and Murphy whose only experience with fried chicken was The Colonel, which neither of them particularly liked.

"Seamus, I don't think you need to worry. The 'lepreclowns' as you called them will likely not attend our fundraiser. They're too busy trying to raise funds for themselves." She said a bit sourly, glancing sideways at the crowd. "Most of them need to be at home studying, if you want to know the truth. There are so many opportunities for these children if they will just do their school work. It's so frustrating. They would rather be down here every night peddling junk to tourons--"

"Tourons? What's a touron?" Murph asked brightly, feeling a colloquialism in his midst.

Cheryl Langtry looked a bit sheepish all of a sudden, as she brought her fingers over her lovely lips and her hazel eyes became extremely wide.

"I truly don't mean any offense, Seamus and Anus, and surely your name really isn't Anus. But a touron is the combination of a tourist and a moron. I apologize. I tend to rant when it comes to the children and their education. Being a teacher can be a challenge these days."

"Seamus is definitely a touron, Mrs. Langtry. And me name is Angus but it appears everyone really enjoys callin' me Anus." Connor chuckled. "No offense taken. Now, how do we get ta this marvelous soundin' dinner?"

After taking the GPS coordinates for the Leprechaun Tree so that they could load them on to Google Earth, which Murph had been reading about in Kim Komando's column, they headed back to Connor's beloved Land Rover. After a full inspection from stem to stern of her exterior, Connor was satisfied that the Leprechaun Flute seller/extortionist had not made any vindictive scratches due to their refusal to buy his wares. Connor began a tirade when he snatched the Flute vendor's business card which he found tucked up under the windshield wiper of the Rover. He wadded up the business card and deposited it into a dedicated garbage sack and continued his tirade for the entire trip over to the community center. Connor was absolutely enraged that someone would have the audacity to violate the Rover's personal space unsolicited. Murph just nodded, nodding he had no right at all to either judge, snicker or chastise, as a wave of relief washed over him with every inch of distance that grew between him and the fucking creepy lepreclowns.

What Connor didn't notice while raving about the cost of parking and the Flute Seller touching The Rover, as he was starting the engine to leave, were the two thirteen year old boys, twins actually, that had snuck behind The Rover and stuck at an approximate one-hundred-twenty degree angle **a bumper sticker** on The Rover. Basically, the damned thing was crooked as crooked could get. They didn't apply the sticker to the bumper, as Connor would later discover in utter horror a few moments later when he and Murphy removed the Guinness kegs, but rather to back door of The Rover about two feet up, virtually in the smack dab center. The sticker was white and in bright, emerald green text, said, "I saw the Crichton, Alabama Leprechaun!" And it was crooked. Oh, so crooked.

Murphy saw the entire thing transpire in the side mirror and fought back laughter, as not to spoil the harmless fun a set of twins were having at his brother's expense. After all, he had paid them to do it.

**A/N: One more chapter to go. Please read and review and keep me going!**


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